A Book of Tales and a Mug of Ale
by Wombatman99
Summary: This is where i'm going to be stashing all of the shenanigans me and my friends have pulled sitting around the table rolling dice. They take place in separate campaigns and universes so I'll make sure to specify in the AN.
1. Bodycount

"Lord Brocklaw, if you would be so kind as to come hither for but a moment?"

Across the semi-populated room, Simon Breckenridge heard his assumed name and character being beckoned and deftly made his way past the socialites and nobles scattered about the sitting room, coming to a halt in front of a rather petite elderly woman.

"Yes, your majesty?" Simon said as he bowed to her, voice dripping with honey and thinly veiled annoyance.

"We would like to congratulate you on your recent marriage, though it is quite a shame your young bride could not attend." The queen spoke in her excessively posh accent, the sign of her high status showing in ways beyond her bejeweled crown and entourage of lightly armored guards.

Oh how he despised these upper crust twits and their inbred superiority complexes, but no matter his hatred for them he was there for a far different reason.

"She sends her regards your majesty, along with a private letter she wanted me to give to you to look over in private." Simon said as he extracted the envelope from the inner pocket of his coat, hand brushing past his darts but refraining from lodging one in the old bats throat and handing the wax-sealed parchment envelope to the ancient woman.

"Oh now, what could be so important that we would have the need to read it in private?" The old hag queried as she popped the wax seal off, smiling up at him from her seat on the duvet.

The moment the seal was broken a spark was ignited and from that one spark came a veritable conflagration that exploded toward the near fossilized monarch, flash frying her in her seat and taking a handful of her guards with her. For the fifth time that day, Simon cursed his poor luck and for what felt like the hundredth cursed that bloody magician for the mere sin of existing as he reflexively launched a dart from the sleeve of his coat into the neck of guard before in the same motion drawing his rapier and impaling the other still living guard through the chest.

Swearing under his breath in every language he knew and several he didn't, Simon proceeded to slice through the dozen or so nobles and miscellaneous upper crust socialites that had witnessed his blatant murder of royalty, dodging and weaving through numerous strikes from all sides as he tossed darts from inside his jacket into the throats of several screaming young women whilst parrying away the blades of their husbands and suitors.

"Confounded foolish old bat," Simon muttered as he went about the room plucking his darts from their homes in the throats of those he had slain whilst on his little tirade.

Once his armory had been reacquired he marched steadily up the stairs to the rooftop of the building. Upon his arrival he went swiftly to the edge of the roof and promptly tossed himself off. Instead of the painful splat upon the roadside most would expect from such a blatant suicide attempt Simon felt himself land in the familiar embrace of one of his partners in crime.

"A fine method of escape this time sunshine, now if you would kindly return me my wallet we can be off and to the house in two shakes of a lambs tail." The harsh man spoke, his accent blatant as his words partially slurred into the familiar voice of Jaeger.

"As you wish you sauerkraut munching degenerate." Simon sniped as he climbed out of his associate's arms and steadied himself on the ground, only for Jaeger to push him over as he found his footing and land him in a puddle of sewage.

"That joke is getting old you tea silt, just like you are." Spat the younger man as he dusted off his hands and stuffed them back into his pockets.

"So, what have you been busying yourself with?" Simon asked as he stripped away the now soiled clothes he wore to reveal common clothes.

"Well," Jaeger drawled as he tossed a canvas duffel to the Englishman, "I ran into a few strapping young men and had myself a bit of fun. I even made a few shillings while I was at it."

"You jumped some upper class twits and stole their coin purses, lovely. Do you happen to have any hobbies beyond theft and attempted murder? Maybe something like knitting or even solitaire perhaps?" Simon muttered underneath his breath as he stuffed the ruined clothes into the bag.

"Not really," Jaeger said as he began walking out of the alley to the busy street beyond, "Now let us go. The others are waiting for the report."

"By the by," Jaeger said, turning his head back quizzically, "What was the body count for this one?"

"Counting the old bat? 32." Simon said, his face drawn tight as though he'd bitten into a lemon.


	2. Amnesia

**AN** : This takes place in a separate universe from the previous story, which will be known as the Twisted King Universe, the ones including the character Judger are known as the Journey Home Universe, and the ones with the character Brant are known as the Elemental Knight Universe. Hope this keeps things straight.

Judger wasn't a smart man, but he knew things. He knew how to cook game, which roots and wild herbs were good to eat or could be used to treat wounds, which critters were edible and which were better off to leave lay, he knew that elves were stuck up prissy bastards who lived in trees, and that dwarves were some of the most dependable folk to have at your back in a scrap, but the one thing Judger didn't know, was where in the hell he was at the moment. Last he remembered he was in a scrap against some blonde gal who'd put a knife to his gut, and now here he was sitting in the middle of an encampment of nomads, on a hide bedroll far away from anywhere he knew. He shook the sleep from himself and tried to think, his brow creasing and jaw tightening. After a bit, he realized thinking hurt. He felt a tap upon his shoulder, startling him. He looked to see who it was, only to see a young woman dressed in hides and beads, with olive skin and deep green eyes. Looking at her, he was reminded of someone, but whom he was reminded of was questionable. He looked at the girl intensely for a few moments, thoughts of a young slender elven girl decked in armor overtaking his mind. The girl's lips moved, as if saying something to him, but he heard nothing.

It was odd; the girl had tried to speak to him numerous times but each time he only heard silence. He could see the other people in the camp, moving around and chattering at one another, but he could not hear them. He heard the rattle of pots and pans and knives, the neighing of horses, the pounding of hammer to anvil, the beating of some shamanic drum, and the crackling of a fire, all of which bringing images back to his mind. The sound of the pots and pans banging together brought images of a worn old half-elf with a broken blade and a kindly smile, the neighing of the horses showing him the sight of a rotund dwarf with a hammer and a grin, the pounding of the hammer showed him a man and a woman, siblings perhaps? The man decked in layered armor and the woman, no, closer to a girl, was swathed in cloth dark like the night sky. The pounding of the drum brought thoughts of a man with feathered wings upon his back, and a thick book held under one arm. Finally, the crackling of the fire showed him someone who was neither man nor woman. He knew this one. He knew their name; it ran through his mind, "Ikraam". It repeated over and over as he thought of them, draped in satin cloth with a dagger sliding out of the sleeve, and a cheeky grin peeking out from behind an indigo veil, white hair sticking out everywhere on their head. As he thought of these people, he heard footsteps behind him, and finally, a voice. One he knew.

"Finally awake now sleepyhead?" The voice was slightly accented, as though they were unused to speaking the common language.

Judger looked back behind him to see many of the people the sounds had shown him. The armored man and his shadowed sister, the grinning dwarf, the elven girl, the feathered man, and Ikraam. As he took them all in, their names came rushing back to him like a burst dam. Oga, Benihime, Xil'cal, Olag, Layla, and finally, Ikraam.

"Well?" said Layla, "are you feeling better or not? We can't spend all day waiting for you to get better, Dral is waiting on us at the mountains yet."

Finding his voice finally, Judger spoke.

"Y-yeah guys. I'm fine, now let's get moving. I want us there before suppertime."

Inside, he smiled. Judger Jacklaw was not a smart man, but he knew things. He knew how to cook game, which roots and herbs were good for eating and curing ailments, which critters were edible and which were better to leave lay, he knew that Layla was short tempered and quick to strike you for stupidity, and that Olag was one of the finest people to have at your back for a scrap, and that Oga could drink like a demon and that Ikraam and Benihime would loot your wallet if you left them unchecked, he knew that Xil'Cal was smart as a whip with a tongue as sharp as a knife, but above all, Judger knew one thing, and that was that his friends were more valuable than troves of gold, and that he wouldn't trade them for anything bar none, because beyond being his friends, they were his family.


	3. The Assault

**AN** : This takes place in the Journey Home Universe.

They had ripped through our garrison like wax paper. Six people, all for one little runaway experiment. It was terrifying really, watching six people mow down magically modified soldiers like so much high grass with not a word spoken out of any of them, and now here they were at the gates of their inner sanctum about to take them off at the hinges.

"Olag," Judger said, voice tenser than he would've liked, "give them a good old fashioned Dwarven welcome."

"Aye, I think I will." The dwarf spoke as he began to heft his massive hammer, only to be interrupted by a voice that had tormented them for the entirety of their assault.

"Wait! Either leave here without the experiment and live, or try and take her and die like the inferior creatures you are!" came the snide weaseling tone from the tower beyond the gates.

"No thanks." Was the collective reply from the band as Olag swung his hammer into the gates with a resounding _smash!_ bringing them down off their hinges to the dirt.

As the group stepped through the gateway, they saw for the first time the face of their enemy. He was tall, and lithe, with a whipping tail and snarling jaws that looked like they had knives instead of teeth inside of them, and long dagger-like claws that were poised at the throat of their seventh member.

"Now then," the Dragonborn snarled at them from his tower, "give up on this endeavor, the girl has clearly submitted to her death."

"Mate, how many times have we got to tell you? We. Do not. Give up. You harmed one of ours, so we are going to burn this hole to the _**freaking ground**_ and leave no traces it ever existed beyond ashes and corpses." Judger said as he drew his second blade from its sheath.

"Look at who your enemies are you fools! You rail against the will of our Mother Tiamat herself! None who resist Her will live to tell of it!" He was hysterical now, voice high and screeching on their ears as he gestured wildly to the bannerette above him upon the top of the tower.

"I see then. Take it down boys." It was said so low it was near inaudible, but everyone understood the message as they drew their weapons.

"Two Sword Style: Penitence of The Fallen." Was yelled as compressed air came flashing from Oga's twin blades, the faces of the condemned screaming from inside them.

"Gliding Knife Style: Flat Bone Phoenix!" Slipped fluidly from Benihime as dozens of blades flew from her sleeves in torrents shaping themselves into the bird of rebirth.

"Desert Treachery!" Was all Ikraam uttered as the very soil below them began to coalesce into miniscule blades of sand and dust before flying at their target.

"Wrath of Moradin!" Yelled Olag as his hammer became bathed in burning light as he flung it at the banner flapping above them, the Forging God himself blessing its flight.

"Such a special occasion calls for something new and…untested. Behold! Chaos Storm!" Xil'cal cried as his body glowed with a purple and black light that soon coalesced into a crackling and flashing ball of energy that quickly moved in on the target.

" **AVALANCHE STANCE: ROCK BOTTOM BLAZE OF GLORY.** " Judger yelled, his blades glowing a deep emerald green as he raised them above his head, slashing the downward unleashing two blades of pure stone into flight toward bannerette.

They did not simply destroy the symbol of the dragon queen, but they decimated it. They erased it as though it had never existed in the first place.

"We're coming for you Layla, just sit tight and relax for right now, okay?" Judger yelled up to her with a reassuring grin on his scarred face.

To Be Continued…


	4. Part 1: The Bout

**AN:** This story and the following chapter take place in the Elemental Knight Universe otherwise known as The Adventures of Patrol Group B.

As Brant stepped onto the field of battle across from his most trusted ally, he steeled himself against the coming battle. He had gone undefeated so far and suffered minimal injuries, but as he saw his cloaked friend make his way to his starting position across the arena, he shivered with fear for the first time that day.

"In this corner," the announcer boomed, "the knight of the north and renowned Glacier King, Brant Tarl!" The crowd cheered loudly at this, their applause nearly deafening him.

"And in this corner," the announcer continued on with his posturing, "the Smiling Man, the friend to all children, Xesfort Soric!" The crowd cheered at this, but less so than they had for Brant. It was the finals, and many of them had bet upon him as an underdog so the lack of cheering was a bit odd.

"I apologize to you Soric, I will have to use your creation against you my friend." Brant said as he drew his sword from his hip and readied his massive shield.

Soric simply laughed and brushed off the apology.

"No need to apologize Brant, it was made to be used after all." Soric said as he drew his own blade, a red aura beginning to coalesce upon it.

As the announcer said for them to begin, Brant dashed toward his foe, size belaying his impressive speed as he cleared the distance in a blink, sword raised and already crashing down upon his brother in arms. The blade connected with a meaty crunch as it dug into Soric's shoulder, crimson fluid flash frozen by the frost imbued within the blade.

"A fine blow Brant," Soric said nonchalantly, as if he were discussing the weather, "let's see how you like my first move." And suddenly his free hand was moving in elaborate patterns as he muttered arcane chants before the hand was jabbed into his side and a deep red energy flowed into him.

As the hand dug deeper, Brant felt pain unlike he ever had before. He felt no wounds or blood upon him, but the pain felt as though his entire body was one massive gaping wound flowing freely with blood. It was pain like he had never experienced, it was agonizing and made his mind feel like it was filled with needles and knives. He lost focus for a brief second, and then it was like he had seen the face of a god. He was enlightened for a brief moment before reality struck and he was sore all across his body. As he stood up from where he lay facedown in the dirt, sword clutched in one hand and shield propping himself up, he saw the inquisitively raised eyebrow of the necromancer, looking at him as if he were an interesting experiment.

In that instant, Brant Tarl, formerly Brant the Brusque, a man who held himself in proper decorum and abstained from all vices since his defeat at the hands of his master Braum Tarl at the age of 19, lost his temper. He took the brief second of enlightenment he had been granted and channeled it into his blade, focusing it down onto the tip as he rose to his full height. The air in the arena grew cold, even though it was only the beginning of August, and ice began to form along his body.

" _ **Frost Queen's Claim…**_ " He uttered, voice harder than the rime he had been born into, as he raised his blade skyward as it began to glow a deep indigo blue.

Watching with interest, Soric's eyes widened at the sight of snow falling upon his cloak.

" _ **Glacial Lions Anthem**_." Brant finished, his blade now the color of pitch as it swung down upon his adversary, a spike of black ice the size of two or three men gouging out of the ground as his blade found purchase within the necromancer's unharmed shoulder, the spike driving into his foes sword arm, shattering the brittle bones within it before its wielder slumped onto his foe as the two drifted into unconsciousness from both exhaustion and pain.

The crowd fell silent at this display, jaws agape. Even the ever-chattering announcer had fallen speechless as the two men clashed. As the fight ended, the announcer found his voice and summarily announced the match would be treated as a draw and all prizes would be split evenly between the two fighters before they were taken from the field to be treated.

 **End Part 1: The Bout**


	5. Part 2: The Revelation

**AN:** Here is Part 2: The Revelation

As Brant brought down the telling blow that ended the match, gasps rang out from the competitors booth, even the normally stoic William agape at the show of innate magic that had been unseen until then. The remaining members of Patrol Group B looked on with awe as their leader and lieutenant fell down into the dust, dead to the world, Alistair with eyes wide, mouth moving frantically but not finding the words that eluded him and William looking on with stunned surprise as the dust cleared.

"A-are we seeing the same thing here? Seriously?" Alistair said, voice high and squeaky with a mixture of fear and awe at the feat his commanding officer had displayed.

William nodded near imperceptibly in response to his comrades shocked query, pale skin going a shade paler at the thought of how wounded the two of them must have been to be rushed away so quickly by the medics.

"So mutt, I reckon you know what just happened there right?" Said Be'elimber as he grinned widely at the slowly melting shard of ice still protruding through the arena floor, his eyes shining with a mad sort of light.

"Be gone with you madman," shouted Prodigy as she wheeled on the crazed wizard, hand raised to strike him. "Your perversion of magic will not be tolerated here!"

As the two other magical folks in the booth argued back and forth as they had for the entirety of the tournament, Alistair combed though his memory trying to find what exactly had happened there in the stadium when the horrifying fact suddenly dawned on him. His entire body began to shake, his face going green with illness before he unloaded the contents of his stomach over the railing and onto the arena floor.

"Hmm? Hey, you okay Al? You're looking a little off mate." William piped up with his elegant accent, lilting with an almost lyrical feel to it as he inquired to his companion.

"We must go to Brant and Soric quickly, come now." Alistair brushed off his concerns with a harsh tone, gripping the younger man by the sleeve and near dragging him to the infirmary below the stands to find their downed teammates, Be'elimber cackling madly as they hurried off.

Arriving in mere moments, they found, Brant's brother Callum awaiting them at his bedside. They had had a brief introduction to the man the night before, but they had all been exhausted for various reasons and had made for bed almost immediately after introductions had been made.

Callum was tall, not the near ridiculous proportions of his brother but still a good height of near six foot, with a heavy brow and weary brown eyes that matched the slowly thinning chestnut hair that peaked out from beneath his helmet. He wore a scaled chest-plate over the blue cloth tunics he and his brother shared and had lightly armored trousers and boots on, clanking meekly as he set his elbows upon his knees, hands cupping his face and tears brimming at the corners of his eyes.

"I was afraid of this," he said solemnly, voice cracking ever so slightly. "I was afraid it would happen again. I kept telling myself it was just a one time occurrence but now I have been proven so very, very wrong." The tears that had been present before now rolled down in streaks as the cleric broke down into sobs at his brother's bedside.

"Callum, tell me this isn't what I think it is." Alistair said, no, commanded as his hands curled together into fists and his voice tightened, reflecting the military training that had landed him in their squad.

"I'm quite sorry, but this is just the beginning of it." Callum said through the fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

"Within a few years, he'll be completely gone," he continued on, his voice trembling before hardening with a steel like that of his blade. "Unless we go directly to the source and beg for it to stop. If it comes down to it I'll offer myself to serve as it. I refuse to let this happen to him, not after what happened to father."

"Will someone please explain what is going on here? What do you mean he'll be gone? I am completely lost here!" William yelled in aggravation, voice echoing around the dimly lit chamber that served as an infirmary, face twisting into a scowl.

"What I'm trying to say here," Callum whispered, voice trembling with fear. "Is that Brant is slowly being transformed into a vessel for Moulinglacia."

Shock crossed Williams face as the words were spoken, fat heavy tears long thought dried up beginning to well up in the corner of the young mans eyes before he broke down sobbing. He had already lost so many people, he couldn't bear to lose another.

 **AN:** Part 3 coming soon.


	6. Interlude: The Archer

**Interlude: The Archer**

It was like hell on earth. Flames everywhere, people screaming as limbs stretched from the fire to drag them back to their demise, the smoldering corpses of so many of his schoolmates littering the roads, but that was all secondary to the humanoid figure cackling as he danced, his arms moving like he was the conductor of some sort of infernal orchestra.

William weaved between the flaming limbs that stretched for him, the heat searing against his skin as he ran frantically for the docks to make his escape to the mainland.

Arriving at the boat, he looked back upon the mainland expecting his father to be right behind him, but what he saw was far worse. He saw as his father lunged toward the dancing figure with his spear in hand, teeth grit tightly and clothes tattered. The figure stopped his dancing as the spear dug into his shoulder, and with all the seriousness of a man squishing a fly he plunged his arm up to the shoulder into Orrian's stomach, the flames dancing along his arm cauterizing the wound as the limb removed itself.

Looking on with horror, William Felethlal screamed and cried, begging for it all to be a bad dream. It was not. This was cold hard reality and he knew it. He denied it all, said it was just a bad dream brought on by a fever, but by the time they arrived at the mainland he had given up all hope in denying it. Orrian was dead. His home was gone. His life was meaningless now. As he was herded off of the boat among the other refugees, he saw something familiar. The large armored man helping the elderly off of the boats with the snowflake upon his chest-plate had been at his home a few months back, speaking with his father about something. Their conversation had been hushed and hurried, the urgency of it obvious to any who had seen it. Moving shakily, his wiry limbs aching from the burns and cuts he had received escaping the village, he walked towards the man.

Taking notice of his approach, the man raised a bushy eyebrow inquisitively at the youth before his eyes widened with recognition.

"You," William said, his voice cracking with a mix of anger and sorrow. "You knew my father. You knew this was going to happen." He fell to his knees, eyes trying to cry but finding no tears.

The large man picked him up in his arms, and carried him off to the village inn, whispering to him promises of explanation upon arrival.

 **Interlude: The Archer, end**


	7. The Final Will and Testament

"Well gentlemen, since Brant has passed on and I am his only remaining family and the one who helped him draw up and update his will as we traveled I feel it would only be right if I acted as executor of his estate. Is that alright with everyone?" Callum said as he drew out a long piece of parchment from his bag, oblong reading glasses sliding dangerously low upon his nose.

A few murmurs of agreement and a nod in the affirmative from Soric and Callum began to read off the will solemnly.

"I, Brant Edwin Tarl, of sound mind and body," Callum began, only to be interrupted by a sharp choking scoff from Soric.

"To my overly emotional ward William, I leave a boot to the head." The older man spoke as his right leg lashed out and struck the young man in the side of the head, disorienting him.

"To my colleague Soric, ever the scheming prick who's never done a day of manual labor in his life," he spoke as his leg began to twitch.

"I'm protecting my head." Soric said as he ducked under the table.

"Three crates of my finest brandy." Callum finished, scowling in an almost disappointed fashion.

"R-really? He really left all of that expensive brandy to me?" Soric questioned as he came up from beneath the table.

"Yes, as well as a boot to the head." The scholars foot lashing out quickly and catching the necromancer across the jaw.

"To Alistair, the insufferable bastard that he is, I leave something quite important. I leave to him…a boot to the head. And one for the wimp." Once more his leg lashed out and struck both William and Alistair across the faces simultaneously.

"To the marshal, who kept us in line, brought us reinforcements more than one time, and saved our asses too many times to count, I bequeath…. a boot to the head. And one for Al and the wimp." He said, his leg quickly lashing from the face of the marshal to cross the faces of the two young men at the side of the table.

Meanwhile Soric was snoring on the floor.

"To my cat Mittens, I leave my entire, valuable, boot to the head." This time the boot went flying across the room, smacking into the fluffy creature, making it yowl in pain.

"And I leave the entirety of my estate to what remains of the people of New Terse so that they can afford to move somewhere a little warmer like Stelland Proper." Callum finished out the will with a laugh, tossing the will to the side before standing, brushing himself off, and giving Soric another swift boot to the head.

 **AN: Kind of a funny one. Made it to help cope with Brant dying and me having to bring in a new character and also because I love this skit to death and had to recreate it. Probably will have a new chapter up later introducing the new character.**


	8. Old Friends and New Ones

The Academy for Necromantic Arts at Sanghaim was, admittedly, rather nice. It had been a bit worse for wear when he had studied there, but now it practically thrummed with magic. The few students he had encountered on his trek through the halls all seemed promising. Some had retinues of skeletons or well stitched flesh golems following behind them, some had larger undead acting as mounts, one student had even had a Mohrg trailing behind him, its long jawed tongue hanging out as it trundled along. He paid his respects to the more promising ones he found, and they returned them with deep bows and curious questions on how he had acquired such odd appendages and, upon their realization that he was exactly who they thought he was, several pleads and offered bribes for his secret to his Dolls.

He accepted the praise graciously, and refused the bribes, as that secret would follow him to immortality.

He continued wandering the halls, reminiscing of his younger days with a fondness that was matched only by that which he had for fine alcohols.

Eventually he was met by a tall man, his head uncovered unlike the others he had met and his long braided copper-colored hair just beginning to become peppered with gray. He was dressed in what appeared to be the garb of a professor altered to suit his needs, the normally long flowing sleeves cut off at the shoulders and the billowing coat cut at the knees, many straps and chains hanging from it suspending different bubbling vials and pieces of most likely magical jewelry. His face was young looking, crows feet just beginning to appear at the corners of his eyes.

For several moments they looked at each other, eyes squinted and minds churning as each tried to remember the other.

Eventually, the professor-like man spoke, his tone lackadaisical and filled with nostalgia.

"Xesfort Soric, double major in Flesh Theory and Undead Commerce with a minor in Corpse Calling. It's been a good 15 years since you graced these halls, what are you here for now?" He spoke, tone shifting to almost suspicion as his eyes narrowed further.

"How good to see you as well, Deputy Headmaster March," Soric began, his irritation obvious as he was interrupted by the now known March.

"Its just professor now, Soric. They replaced me with some fop of a Demilich that probably got to where he is now with assistance from a demon." March's voice was edging into anger now, the previously unnoticeable tension in the hall increasing to the point passing students began to choke on their breath.

Suddenly, the pressure lessened, the once choking students now gulping heavy breaths as they lay on the floor. March smiled at him, before walking ahead and beckoning him to follow.

"Now, I'm not sure how your memory has faired in these years Soric, but do you remember the apprenticeship trials we held in your graduating year?" March asked, a thin eyebrow rose curiously.

"Ah, yes. I believe I placed rather highly in that little tournament. Had points deducted for using my sword I do believe." Soric said, his near skeletal jaw clacking as he spoke and an air of reminiscence about him.

"Yes, well, this year I would like for the prize to be a bit different. Instead of apprenticing with one of the professors here in the city, I would like for you to take one of them with you. I've heard of your shop. In fact I've gone out of my way to procure more than a few of your nicer products over the years for both myself and my nephew when he was younger." March spoke, his cat-like eyes gaining a sort of glimmer as he spoke of his nephew.

"Ah, I see. You will of course allow me to test them as I please and take a look at their personal workshops? And of course, I'll need to be reimbursed. I do not take apprentices, and will require payment of some kind." He said as he ran his skeletal hand over the handle and sheath of his blade, the red runes inscribed upon it glowing lightly as his fingers brushed them. It wouldn't do to anger one of the more powerful vampires in the city, so his anxiety was not out of place.

A sour look crossed the vampire's face, a low grumble leaving his mouth before he sighed and spoke.

"I assume you are aware of my nephew? I mentioned him earlier, and he is one of the more…. handy people in the city. He's pulled in numerous bounties and donated them to the school out of sheer goodwill. I am willing to give you him as an escort for so long as you have one of my students as an apprentice." March began to mutter before speaking up and repeating himself, his displeasure evident.

"Hmm. I will take the boy as sufficient payment for my taking the apprentice. Now, let us go and inspe-" Soric began to speak before the sight of Callum, emerald passage scarf wrapped around the high iron collar he wore, walking beside a young cloaked man with long flowing black hair and ritualistic tattoos inscribed across his face and arms, a crude breastplate of leather across his chest and a painful looking mace held in his hand. They walked together, speaking amicably with each other as they came toward the elder pair.

"Bel-er Vortimer, who's your friend here?" March asked, his thin eyebrow once more raised in question.

"Oh, Uncle Vanch! This is Callum. He was in the library and got lost looking for the section on souls and reincarnation. I was heading there so I decided to show him the way and we hit it off." The younger man said, his face turning upwards into a grin that showed a few too many teeth for a human being.

Callum nodded along with the younger man, his armor giving the occasional clank and bang as he did so.

"I've been doing a little research and what I've found so far is promising." The cleric said, his voice both echoed and muffled by the collar and scarf that covered the lower half of his face.

"So," Soric began, "I believe we were heading to the practice hall to examine some of my prospective apprentices?"

"Yes, we were. Allow me to collect my retinue from my office and we'll be on our way. Would you two like to accompany us?" March said as he stepped into one of the larger doors in the hallway. A few moments of indistinct shouting and a crash or two later March came out from the door cracking his knuckles, and behind him came a large stitched creature, a battleaxe at its hip and a suit of crude armor that could have been mistaken for the same weathered skin covering its torso, and behind that creature came a gaggle of pale-haired and gray-skinned vampires, each dressed in their own versions of the student uniform.

"Now then, shall we be off?" March said, his voice pleasant despite the bruises that littered his knuckles.

The ragtag band continued down the hallway, down a few flights of stairs, and eventually arrived in a massive quartz lined room. In the center a man garbed in the robes of a professor grappled with the Mohrg Soric had seen earlier. The creature seemed to have gone out of control and begun to rampage.

Sighing, Soric cracked the knuckles on his skeletal hand before stepping into the fray and slamming the palm of the bony limb into the Mohrg's face, crushing the jawed tongue back down its gullet as his hand crackled with unholy energy. The energy coursed through the body of the undead before the wormlike main body exploded in a shower of gore and half-digested flesh.

"Lesson number one of controlling powerful undead: If you create them they will follow your orders absolutely. If you attempt to command them they will rebel against you and you. Will. Die." Soric said angrily as he turned on the student cowering several feet away, his half-rotted jaw looking even more menacing then usual as he glared down at the sniveling brat.

The professor, a Half-Orc with his tusks engraved with silver and gold and numerous tattoos and scars upon his uncovered chest looked at the quasi-lich oddly before laughing uproariously.

"Xesfort Soric! I remember you well!" He choked out between laughs, his voice gravelly and like sandpaper on their ears.

"Hmm? Oh! Krizz Korolik! I haven't seen you since we fought in the apprenticeship tournament, how have you been?" Soric said, his tone one of surprise and general happiness to see an old friend.

"Ah, I replaced the old combat instructor here. These little snots need to learn how to fight man to man eventually right?" The half-breed said as he wiped a tear from his eye, gray skin ruddy with sweat and encrusted grime from a day of fighting. Calling an end to the class and reprimanding the students that had done poorly, the group dismissed themselves to the nearby dining hall where they discussed with each other at length which students would be ready for apprenticeship and which would not be by the time they were prepared to leave. They spoke long into the night before they all retired to their quarters for the night; agreements made and deals set. Vortimer would join the group when they set out to leave, and those interested would find tutelage at the school in a number of subjects.


	9. Self Sacrifice

"Why couldn't you just save yourself you dumb son of a-"

"Ikraam, it's no use. He's dead." Dante spoke, as consoling as he could be with the tremble in his voice, his own violet eyes misting as he looked at the corpse clutched tightly to his friends chest.

The battle had been harsh, with what seemed like endless foes rushing at them from all sides. No one had made it out unscathed, but Judger. Judger had paid the ultimate price. He had seen it before anybody else; a sniper nested up on a bell tower some distance away, crossbow loaded and aimed into the fray. Aimed in the center of Ikraam's back.

They had never seen him move so quickly, swords still drawn as he threw himself arms out to the sides as a human shield. The moment he had begun to move had been the moment the assassin shot, man and bolt on a collision course with each other.

It had ripped through his chest like tissue paper, a single hole bored directly through his chest.

"I can still hear his voice, Dante. I can still hear his last words." Ikraam bit out between sobs, body shaking as he cried.

" _Hey now, you're going to be king. Kings aren't allowed to cry over some nameless bodyguard."_ His voice had been shaky, blood trailing from his lips. Those lips that even in death stayed in that ever present smile.

"I hear it too. He'll always be with us, even in death." Dante was visibly crying as well, hand splayed open over his heart in some abyssal salute to the undead.

Ikraam slowly stood, letting the body slip from his grasp. His scarf was soaked, and tear stains were visible on the thick overcoat Judger wore.

They stripped the body of the coat and his weapons, the sturdy leather item bearing a hole the size of a copper above the heart.

Ikraam sat motionless, coat over his shoulders and swords at his feet as he watched Dante construct a makeshift funeral pyre for the fallen warrior.

Eventually, it came time to light the memorial, and Ikraam knew he would not enjoy this fire.

They watched the body burn, and as they prepared to leave the now truly abandoned town, Ikraam felt a dull thrumming against the hip where he had slotted Judgers swords.

Drawing it from the sheathe, he marveled at what had occurred. Upon the blade was the same lattice mark as Judger had tattooed on his cheek. The blade glowed green for a moment, before both Ikraam and, a little farther up the road Dante, heard a familiar voice.

" _Well uh, this is new. Guess I'm going to be your bodyguard for a lot longer than we both expected eh?"_ Came Judger's voice ringing out over the road, unsure and confused by the new situation.

Ikraam began to cry once more, this time though, they were not in mourning.


	10. Lucky: Scars

It's the first heavy snow of winter when it happens. The change of the seasons sets his body to aching, old wounds halfways healed and those that never truly healed right bending and groaning like beggars on the street.

Lucky lies in his bed in the Vanator compound, barely holding back groans of pain and tears of regret. The scar on his chest feels the worst, a starburst of still red and angry skin. It feels as fresh as it did the week after he got it.

The one across his face, the jagged line that crosses his nose and just under his eyes, it hurts too. It feels like the pain of failure, the pain of never being able to rest until those voices behind his eyes always murmuring "you can do it" and "don't give up yet" can finally rest themselves.

He feels his other scars flare up with pain, the divot in the top of his left wrist where a merchant had tried to cut his hand off for stealing, the thin line around the base of his neck where a thief had attempted to choke him out with a spool of razor wire, the 8 long red lines stretching from his wrists to the middle of his forearms.

He still remembers that night, curled up in the corner of the back room of the Lowbrow halfways dead when Liche found him and patched him up.

That was when the voices started. Voices that sounded like Tequila and Cask.

He rolls back over and forces himself back to sleep, tears streaming down his cheeks and painful memories hurting him more than the dull pain of his scars.


	11. Lucky: The Storm

If Aku was a wildfire, untamed and uncontrollable, then Lucky was a lightning bolt, wild yet precise.

If Dex was the winter wind, unexpected and devastating, then Lucky was a peal of thunder, loud and ominous, a portent of things to come.

Even in his youth, before he was "Mr. Gambler", and before he was even Lucky, back when he was little Gimlet the workmans son, he loved every aspect of a storm. The smell of rain as it came down, the rumble in his chest as thunder rolled across the sky, and the flash of light as the lightning struck the ground.

As he grew up, his love for the boom of thunder and flash of lightning faded, replaced with the love of a family, and then with a burning grief. Now though, as he gazed at the crackle of lightning running through his blade, he could feel it again.

The blood rushing in his ears turned into the roar of thunder, and he could hear his father's gentle hum as they watched the storm together, a voice piercing through the both of them.

 _You are the storm now, little Gim, now go on and show them what you're made of._

His movement was the roll of thunder, a warning to move away or risk your life, and his blade was the bolt, wild yet precise.

And like any other storm before him, the best course of action was to move aside and wait for it to pass.

He would give the mage across from him no such pity.


	12. Lucky: Tasting Personality

Lucky never told anyone how they tasted. For one thing, it was odd to say outright, and would garner him some strange looks for sure, but looking at some people was impossible because of their taste.

Aku was the exotic spice of the dried chilis sold by olive skinned merchants on Mercator Island.

(His father had tasted of light ale, refreshing but not very strong)

Dex was like spearmint, fresh and cool and calming.

(His mother had been like overcooked fish, overpowering and sickening)

Rope and Liche were the bitter sweetness of licorice, the kind old men chew while sitting at Watch Me tables and arguing.

(His aunt Talica was like a home cooked meal, filling and bittersweet to remember)

Edith was like warm cider, calming and cinnamon-sweet.

(Tequila had tasted like a ripe pear, sweet and bursting with flavorful juice)

Olivia was like a vintage whiskey, burning at first but warming after a while, with subtle flavors all the way down.

(Cask had tasted like honey candy, sweet and grounding)

Elwin was like lemonade, slightly sour but sweet enough to be refreshing.

(Holliday left a taste like lamp oil smelled, and it had almost made him vomit.)

As he stood there, sword drawn in a staredown against the Seshen mage, Dagon, he forced down his bile as black pepper filled his mouth, a taste like hatred and arrogance.

But he thought back to those tastes, and one held out above the others. That whiskey burn in his throat roared to life as he raised his sword, and lunged forward.


	13. Lucky: Faces of the Past

Lucky wasn't used to seeing old friends in people, but the day he saw Aku, with the air thick with mist and his vision still blurred, he nearly mistook him for Cort, risen from the grave and treating it like a nap after a night of fighting and drinking.

When the mist cleared though, what he saw wasn't his friend. The skin an angry red color instead of the murky green of a half-orc, and the tusks stuck out farther than Cort's filed down teeth. Still though, the plain manner of speaking and the proclivity for drink and violence reminded him.

Dex, upon meeting him, elicited the same reaction. The bursts of profanity as he beat on the coffin reminded him so much of Eddie, the one who had taught him how to count cards and shark the other people at the table. Even the taste was similar, fresh menthol compared to overpowering spearmint. Even the way they fought was similar, wild swings interspersed with peels of laughter and vulgar taunts.

When he realized it, Elizabeth's similarity to Susan was striking. Her kindness, her willingness to help, her friendliness and even her skill with magic was close to the motherly woman.

Even Isha, small and so full of contempt for everything around him, gave him pause. His pure rage at the world seeming so much like Elias and his gutter mouth even more so, spitting scornful comments in Undercommon at anyone who so much as looked at him wrong.

Returning back to Drem, Lucky made for the Graveyard, tears threatening to spill down his cheeks in tracks as he hurried along. He made his way to a specific cluster of graves, maybe three rows away from the ones where Cask and Tequila rested.

Pulling out the bottle of rum from his bag, he poured a bit on each of their headstones before settling himself down cross-legged in front of them, and he began to speak.

"Hey Cort, Susie, Ed, El, you guys won't believe some of the folks I've met recently…"


	14. Isha: Explosive

_I'm a homemade hand grenade_

 _Living a pipe bomb dream_

 _I love this life I've made_

 _Even if it isn't what it seems_

If there was one word to describe Isha, it was confident. He was self-assured, cocky at times, but every move he made he made with confidence.

If there was one word that didn't describe Isha right now, it would be confidence. Unless of course you were saying he was confident in his evasion skills as he ran through the deserted streets of Gunoi as several large crashes sounded out, signifying the Minotaur that he had been hunting on request (and promise of payment by) the Lowbrow Casino. Sure to most anyone else it would have been suicide, but to Isha? To Isha it was a challenge.

Slowing to a jog, Isha made a mental map of Gunoi. After a minute he nodded to himself and scrambled up onto the roof of a nearby shack, eyes scanning the streets before spotting a familiar set of horns sticking over the rooftops.

"Hey you, hay bale breath! Your mother was a heifer, and your father was a cut of ribeye!" Isha yelled as he quickly dodged over to the next rooftop, the one he was on previously having been brought down by a half ton of cow-man.

They kept up the chase, Isha leaping from rooftop to rooftop across streets continuing to taunt the minotaur as he led it into a dead end alleyway, crates stacked high at the back walls of it.

Isha gave one last smug grin at the raging creature as it howled before lowering its head for another charge, dropping the lit match he held in his hands as he jumped away and began to run as the explosives went off one charge after another, killing the beast in one fell bloody swoop.


	15. Lucky: Number Three

When Lucky stumbled into the infirmary, Isha still doubled over behind him laughing like a loon, he was a sight to behold. Blood seeping from where part of his shoulder and arm had been bitten into by the massive worm, guts from said worm dripping all over him, and the overall enraged expression on his face as he shook from both cold and rage.

Needless to say that when Elwin saw him he immediately had him on a bed and out of his cloak, cravat, upper clothes, and armor to check the wounds.

Isha slowly caught his breath, unfolding from where he was clutching his stomach and wiping one last tear from his eye as he sighed.

"Still can't believe you got this fucked up by one little Frost Worm. I used to ride those things at carnivals when I was a kid!" Isha said as he settled himself in one of the chairs across from the bed, eyes closed as he chuckled one last time.

Then he got a good look at Lucky, a cloth stained with a flesh toned makeup in his hand, and he realized how bad off he truly was.

What first drew his eye was the massive scar that took up most of his torso. A starburst of maroon, rough looking skin that covered from the middle of his chest down to the middle of his stomach. It looked like he had jumped on a firebomb, or that Pembede had slammed a large flaming fist into him some time ago.

Then he saw the jagged scar across his face, like someone had tried to take the top of his head off with a hacksaw. Gods, what did someone go through to earn a scar like that? It was jagged, like it had taken several swings to try and cut through the cartilage before stopping. It made Isha think of those veteran soldiers he had seen, battle fatigued and numb to the world around them, living from one battlefield to the other if they lived at all.

Then the surgical looking scar around the base of his neck, like someone had taken a scalpel and tried to cut his throat with it.

How the hell did he get all of these scars? Isha thought, eyebrows pushed together worriedly. I thought he was a thug before all this Vanator business, not a soldier.

Then he saw the scars on Lucky's arm. 8 long lines stretching from his right wrist to his elbow on the inside. Those scars...Isha had seen those scars before.

Averting his eyes, Isha watched as Elwin berated Lucky and stitched the wounds closed before casting a few low grade spells to accelerate the healing. The wounds looked angry. Red swollen marks, a crescent of which went up Lucky's shoulder.

"That makes the third most traumatic thing I've ever been through." Lucky deadpanned as he went to work putting his clothes into his rucksack. They'd need to be washed for sure.

"So, you used to ride Frost Worms at carnivals huh?"


	16. Lucky and Isha: Training

"Come on now boy, you've got two hands, use them for Hermes' sake!" Lucky taunted as he weaved his way through Isha's strikes effortlessly.

Isha had caught onto Common surprisingly quick, and like any other foulmouthed teenager had decided that 'fuck' was his new favorite word.

"Fuck you Lucky, fuck you and anybody who looks like you, you ferret looking fuck." Isha growled as he popped another hidden blade out of its slot and swung the elbow it was attached to at Lucky.

They carried on like this for a while, Isha eventually picking up on Lucky's teachings of 'be your own weapon' and 'always treat it like you're fighting someone twice your size'.

"You favor your right arm too much, your kicks overbalance you, and you're telegraphing your feints too much." Lucky said as he used his rapier to deflect a wrist blade, simultaneously leaning away from a vicious haymaker.

As Isha overextended, Lucky sheathed his sword and wound back his arm before clocking the young man dead between his eyebrows. Stunned, Isha rapidly overbalanced and fell backwards, a bruise forming where he had been struck.

Sighing, Lucky walked over and held a hand out to the boy, a tired grin playing across his scarred visage. Isha grabbed his outstretched hand, and as Lucky went to pull Isha yanked back and sent the older man sprawling. Quickly, Isha climbed on his back and pressed the tip of his wrist blade to Lucky's throat, a vicious look on his face.

"Yield old man, I've got you dead to rights this time." Isha said as the look on his face went from vicious to cocky.

"Yeah, you done good that time kid. I'm proud of you."

"Thanks, dad." Isha said as he helped his adoptive father up.

A beat of silence, as the two realized what had just been said.

"Wait, you called me dad! You finally accept me as your father!" Lucky exclaimed as he hugged his adoptive son tightly, tears of joy pooling in his eyes.

"So what if I did huh!? Who gives a fuck?" Isha said as he struggled against Lucky's bear hug. Not really trying but still putting token effort into his resistance.

"Come on son, let's go get some breakfast and see what your uncles are up to, eh?" Lucky said as he released Isha from his grip, a warm look of fatherly pride on his face as he looked up at his son.

"I'm never going to get used to the fact you're taller than me, y'know that?"


	17. Lucky: Favors

When Lucky walked into the Witches Bane, the first thing he noticed was the mess the shop had been turned into. Shelves overturned, the counter splintered, holes stabbed into the floor, potions spilled, bottles broken, and Beldane leaning on the counter with his face in his hands, the place looked like a tornado had ripped through it. Or the military guard.

This only solidified his decision. It well and truly did.

"You okay kid? Need a hand cleaning up or anything?" Lucky said as he began to right one shelf that had been toppled, the blank spellbooks that had been on it soaked through by some sort of potion.

"No...no I'll get it here in a bit. What do you need Lucky?" Beldane said as he pulled his face out of his hands, eyes red and a steady drip of blood coming from a cut on his forehead.

"Well, we can handle that after we get your shop cleaned up. A businessman has to present himself professionally right?" Lucky said as he pulled another shelf upright, minding the bubbling viscous substance that dripped from one corner of it.

They worked in amicable silence, and after several hours they had the store back to looking presentable at the very least, though the products destroyed would need to be replaced.

"So, my shop is in order again, what do you need done Lucky?" Beldane asked as he settled himself back behind the counter, tenderly poking at the cut on his forehead.

"Well, I came to talk with you, and possibly have a little enchantment done if you're up to it." Lucky said as he pulled up one of the stools at the counter and settled himself on it.

"Isha's doing well, definitely on the mend. Just this morning he told me to go choke on my cravat and die, the little rascal!" Lucky gave a chuckle as he spoke, one arm propping up his chin while the other drummed lazily at the counter.

"Elwin, on the other hand, says he has some odd bruises, Isha does. On his ribs and legs. Said they're about a week old. Any idea where they came from, or are my suspicions correct?" Lucky asked, one eyebrow cocked as looked at the younger man.

The sobs of "I tried to stop them" and "I promised not to tell" and the pleads of "please don't stop him from coming back" were all the answer he needed.

"Hey, relax. I know none of it was your fault, I'm not some military guard jackass, and if I tried to keep Isha locked up in the compound he'd burn it down within a day, so he'll still be coming here quite a bit. This is just reaffirming a decision I made." Lucky said as he patted Beldane's shoulder, a sad look on his face.

"What -hic- decision is that?" Beldane asked, tears tracked in his face as he quivered and hiccuped with sadness.

"Well, I've got to get Isha some new weapons and dye his coat, for one. That way if those scumbags come back looking for trouble he can actually put up a fight." Lucky said solemnly as he scratched at the jagged scar on his face.

"Secondly, I need a favor of you. Pump Isha for info on what he'd want in a weapon. I'm planning to try and recruit him into the Vanator and he'll need a good weapon if he accepts."

"I think I can do that. Just promise me one thing." Beldane said as he wiped the tears from his eyes, expression determined.

"Promise me you'll be willing to post bail the next time those assholes try to harass Isha and I."

"You know I will kid. I owe you anyway." Lucky said, a mischievous smirk on his face as he shook Beldane's hand before turning and walking out of the shop.

"It's gonna be damn weird to have that kid for a son-in-law, but so long as he's a good person I guess."


	18. Isha: Desperate

No, no no no no no no no this can't be happening. They had said that it was an ambush while on patrol. Military Guard members with a grudge. A fractured skull, dozens of stab wounds, broken ribs, one arm halfways torn off, and more blood on him than in him, that was the condition they had brought Lucky back to the compound in, and in a blur Elwin had locked himself and Lucky in the medical ward. That was thirteen hours ago, and Isha was beginning to get antsy.

He struggled against Aku and Dex as they held him back, pained screams tearing their way out of his throat as he tried in vain to free himself from the two men.

Or maybe antsy wasn't the proper word.

"Let me in gods damn it! I need to see him! Let me see my father! Let me see my fucking dad you bastards!" He screamed as he struggled, voice hoarse from the screaming.

The small congregation outside the medical ward could see flashes of light and could hear the bursts of profanity from Elwin. Olivia and Edith were stoic, heads bowed as though they were praying for a good outcome, Beldane was silently sobbing as he sat on the bench across from the doors, even Aku and Dex seemed worried, stifling their sobs as best they could as they held their pseudo-nephew back.

"GODS DAMN IT DARVISH, DO YOU HEAR THAT? THAT'S _YOUR SON CRYING FOR YOU YOU ROTTEN BASTARD! FOR YOUR SAKE, AND FOR THAT FUCKING KIDS SAKE, LIVE YOU STUPID SON OF A BITCH! LIVE!_ " Elwin screamed from inside the ward, a flash of violet light showing beneath the door like an afterthought.

Slowly, the door creaked open, and out stepped Elwin looking haggard and oddly older. Like had aged ten years in those thirteen hours.

"Thought I lost him for a minute, but we got him back. He won't be seeing any combat for a couple weeks, and he'll need to rest for a while before he can have visitors, but he'll most definitely live." Elwin said, voice scratchy as he sagged against the doorframe.

"Now, I need a nap."

Isha collapsed into Aku and Dex, tears streaming down his face as he thanked every god there was for his father's survival. I guess he really did live up to his name, the lucky bastard.


	19. Lucky: Like You Owed Me Money

They had all called me crazy. They had said that doing something like this was tactical suicide. They were probably right, to be quite fair, but they'd also said it would only work if they got insanely lucky.

They should have remembered what I was known for.

Still, in the end Olivia agreed to it, and so did everyone else necessary for it to work. Aku had said something about honor and how fighting dirty would make him feel sick for a while, but I didn't care about that.

So that was how we got here, surrounded by unconscious Seshen soldiers right in front of their commander with our hands raised and weapons sheathed, 'surrendering' ourselves to them.

We fed them a line of bull about how Olivia wasn't fit to run the Vanator, and how they had been dabbling in black magic to try and win the war and how we just couldn't condone something like that.

They bought it like discount ale on Thirsty Thursday.

I spent a couple of hours negotiating terms and conditions with their commander, and when dawn broke the deal had been made. We would lead them straight through the gates under the premise of having negotiated their surrender and bringing them in as hostages, and they thought they'd then get to wreak havoc from there and catch our side with their pants down.

The reality? We were leading them into a death trap. We'd cleared out part of Gunoi to use as the battleground, with Oni, Vanator, guardsmen, and even volunteers from the Lowbrow helping out to kill the rats we bring into our trap.

After some time marching, we were inside, and the commander paled.

"Darvish, I thought you said they'd be caught unawares!" He screamed as Aku, Dex, and I made our way over to Olivia and Pembede.

I looked back, smiled and spoke.

"I lied pal. I gave you the upper hand and then I broke it like you owed me money. Try and survive long enough we can get some info out of you, yeah?"

Then, all hell broke loose.


End file.
